Thursday, September 21, 2017

Become a World Vision Ambassador, Feed your Narcissistic Impulses

One thing a cynic like me cannot get enough of is a hideously wealthy socialite bemoaning the ills of the world, ills for which she and her lifestyle are complicit. A woman who calls herself a humanitarian because her privilege enables her to be a Barbie Doll Savior, as well as write useless, tone-deaf pieces about starving children forced into slave labour. Fluff pieces with titles like: Canadian Consumers Shouldn’t Accept Child Labour In Their Products (source).



When your name is Joan and you're married to a CEO as well-connected and compensated for as Don Walker, you can be, do and say whatever you want regardless of talent, merit, a solid understanding of the subject matter, or even decency.  You can be a model, fashionista, writer, ambassador, an activist whose primary activity is preening behind a podium, reality TV actress, proselytizer for an evangelical organization, or have your body cosmetically mutilated so everyone can constantly prattle on about what a goddess you are. Whatever you desire, it's yours. 

The world is your oyster. And when you're done noisily slurping that down until well and satiated, likely before a desperate crowd of emaciated youngsters with outstretched hands, you can be entertained by those same youngsters as they literally sing for their scraps. Nothing like making a disadvantaged child "perform" so you look good and can feed your narcissistic impulses. You can then peer over the bowed heads of those same youngsters, dismiss their hunger pangs as the price of business, and admonish the rest of us for not doing enough.

After that, satisfied that you've fulfilled your self-appointed messianic duty without breaking a nail, you can leave the filthy urchins in their parched hell, and happily return to your paradise, a summer "cottage" in Muskoka.  



From there, amidst pleasing breezes and leisurely sunny days, you can lament how difficult it is for the "help" to find cheap luxury goods that still allow YOU the selfie-freedom to look at your own reflection without needing the false reassurance of a Magic Mirror. You and your deluded conscience can then sleep soundly at night without fear of being ambushed or physically attacked, unlike those you claim to be advocating for.

Joan Kelley Walker, who according to an interview with ET Canada "went from humble beginnings to a life of luxury when she married multi-millionaire, Don Walker, the CEO of Magna", seems to have come to the conclusion that because she's been prenup'ed into the "rich man clan", her superficial ideas are something we all need to hear. 

It's as bad as Pamela Anderson's disingenuous road to Damascus moment.  After achieving fame and fortune from what basically amounts to a pornographic career, Anderson suddenly comes out at the age of nearly 50, with creepy Rabbi Shmuley of all men, to denounce the industry that secured her a name.  Decades later, well past her "best before date" and safely protected in a fortress of wealth and acclaim, she has the audacity to shame those who now have an unhealthy addiction to pornography in part because of people just like her?

I don't know about anyone else, but I've heard about enough hypocrisy from the cartoonishly augmented Pamelas and Joans of the world and their smarmy male "investors" jerking off in the shadows. Just because pustulating masses of oozing men wanted to fuck you when you were young and pliable, now in your comfortably delusional aging years you think we all need to sit down and hear your words? 

Even worse? People DO sit down and mindlessly stare at the Pamelas and Joans of the world, pretending to listen. No one has any idea what torture it is for me to exist on this intolerable planet. An audience will stop and give attention to women who have made careers and marriages out of sexual objectification, not because of what these women say, but because of who they are and what they look like. 

They take advantage of a populace that is already conditioned to notice when those with celebrity or social status are in a room and have a mic.  The idea that their words inspire action beyond seeking out a plastic surgeon, going into debt, acquiring a sexually transmitted disease, or finding out that nothing can make you happy anyway is dubious at best.

That this type of "runway model" pseudo-activism effects any real long-term, structural change in the causes that sexbot types lend their names to is as probable as Kim Kardashian deflating her implants, shedding her fur, closing her Instagram account, surrendering her iPhone to the National Coalition Against Domestic Violence, and donating everything she has to the Invisible Girl Project. It's as probable as Julian Assange's toilet paper skin bleeding scarlet as he admits to his guilt regarding sexual assault and an unholy alliance with Vladimir Putin before the pair of them scurry off to their ultimate demise in the underground sewage system where they both belong. In other words, I call bullshit.

Joan Walker can blather on all she wants about how "heartbreaking" it is for five year olds to be forced to work in dangerous jobs, or how they should be in school, but when one contemplates where HER wealth and privilege comes from, her chiding "humanitarianism" rings a smidge hollow. 

She writes that she has "little or no idea about the manufacturing chain a product passes through". Oh really? She must have some idea, or are trophy wives not allowed to talk to their husbands?  She is, after all, married to the CEO of an automotive multinational that takes advantage of the SAME dismal working conditions, slave wages, unregulated trade borders and injustice that, as she references, pushes "168 million children" into forced labour worldwide.  


Don Walker is opposed to raising minimum wages anywhere on the planet because he worries that if  too many people are able to feed themselves and improve their quality of life, there will not be enough left over to appease the financial appetites of a gluttonous few. Greed feeds off the suffering and desperation of the poor. They don't need your pity, Joan, they need people like you and your "friends" to stop sucking them dry of bone, blood, hope and life.

When Magna moves its operations to countries like China, India and Mexico because labour and production costs are so cheap that workers cannot even live on the pittance they are paid, someone has to pick up the slack in the name of survival.  Guess who that someone is?


Don Walker, anti-human rights activist
and first husband
of coddled heiress Belinda Stronach
It isn't greedy businessmen like Don Walker who are made rich beyond reason by the unethical practices of unfettered capitalism and a notorious lack of regard for basic human dignity and principles of fairness.  And it isn't "fainting fashionistas" with delicate sensibilities like second wife, Joan Walker. Oftentimes, it's, you guessed it, CHILDREN who have to pick up the slack. 

Advising people to malign and boycott products possibly made by those in survival mode is akin to handing a child a death sentence. If Joan Walker is serious about "making the world a better place", she might consider that charity, like peace, begins at home. You know, her homes, the ones bought with funds associated with the very globalization, offshoring, repression of workers' rights and below subsistence level wages that fuels economic inequality and pushes demand for the same child labour Joan feigns such concern about? 

Joan Kelley Walker is "certain" she "speaks for all Canadians"? Well, I'm Canadian and she definitely DOES NOT speak for me. Go fuck yourself, Joan.

Friday, September 15, 2017

Feral Cats and Dark Entities

I come home tonight and it’s like I’ve walked into the pages of a Stephen King novel. When I get out of my car, it is to the deafening sound of meowing, screeching cats on the ground and squawking crows in the air.



The scavenger crows harass the feral cats, or at least that’s how it appears, but the cats don’t care. They (the cats) are everywhere and are of various sizes, casually loitering about, hanging out with their friends, forming alliances and rivalries; a couple of them erupt into a cat fight while another pair starts copulating right then and there in the open. Disgusting. I hate cats.

“Get a room!”  I shrill as I trudge past them and across the street towards the 300-stair climb to my brother’s Psycho House on the mount where I've been staying, freaking myself out, as a "favor" to him while he's away.  Never trust emotionally incontinent people who ask you for favors.  It's a trap.

I always find myself in traps. Traps from which I must break free, live or die style. It's not easy. I have many scars.

But "goodie" for me, while I might be maimed, I'm still here.  The universe can continue setting its traps, amusing itself.

And that is exactly what happens next when a scraggly looking man, who evidently heard me yell at the cats, lops by carrying an unopened case of Lucky beer. He's wearing shorts that show off his prosthetic leg and when he sees me looking, screams, “YOU get a room!!”

It makes no sense for him to say that I should get room, so I holler back, “Really?”

I am a wizard of witty replies.

“You want a piece of me?!!” he immediately spits back even though it’s a ridiculous thing to say, especially given the present context. Is he kidding? No he is not.  Is he drunk? Probably. Surely, though, he's not going to continue this, I think. He must want to get to where he's going and crack open that case of beer, as if he needs any more.  But no. Lucky-beer-guy-with-the-missing-leg wants to persist with this altercation I’ve inadvertently started. Why are people so confrontational everywhere I go? I hate cats. I hate drunks. I hate confrontation. It's everywhere. And people wonder why I avoid them.

Only a few meters separate us by this point, but although he does slow his pace and keeps turning back to glare at me, he doesn't actually stop, which I take as a good sign.  I pick up my own pace and continue to cross the street. It’s absurd he's decided I've told him to get a room for no apparent reason! I don’t want him going around with such an absurdity in his head, so I call out, “Take it easy! I wasn’t talking to you – I was talking to the CATS!”

I can’t quite make out his reply, but I suspect he calls me a “crazy bitch cat woman” or some variation of same.

Oh my god.

I DO NOT want to be thought of as a crazy cat lady. I don’t even like cats.  As I've said, I hate them.

“They’re not my cats!!” I yell a little too desperately.

But it’s futile. He’s lost interest and keeps going, disappearing into the bowels of the darkening street with the erroneous notion now embedded in his worldview that I’m some crazy cat lady who inexplicitly thought he should get a room.  I do not like this turn of events at all. Not at all. I feel unsettled now and fight the urge to run after him in an attempt to clear up this horrible misunderstanding.

As for the cats, they are oblivious to all this unfortunate human drama their existence has caused. They wander aimlessly in the middle of the road; some block the sidewalk and others trespass on people's lawns. They do and go where ever the hell they please. There are so many of these cats - some of them alarmingly huge tomcats - that I feel like I'm in danger of being jumped by a gang of them.  I tell them to "shoo! shoo!" but they ignore me. They're not afraid of me. They are afraid of NO ONE.



I however have spent enough time thinking about these cats and it’s gotten dark.  I just want to end this day. So I race up the stairs and when I finally reach the front door I have to stop to catch my breath. As I do, the door creaks open, as if someone has pulled it open, but no one is there. It gives me an eerie feeling made all the more eerie when I walk into the dimly lit, quiet house, save for a ticking clock and running toilet.

I turn on the light only to discover, much to my surprise, that my children, the dog and my ex-husband, all of whom should be here, have probably been abducted by aliens (my ex-husband, who might as well NOT be my ex-husband since he's always around annoying the fuck out of me. I've been trying to rid myself of him since I was a teenager, but we procreated so it's just impossible.  Our children like him no matter what he does or does not do. It's infuriating. But there's some stupid unspoken rule that says I'm not allowed to badmouth him in case the kids find out. I don't know who made this rule up. The universe has a sick sense of humor).

As for the suspected alien abduction, the evidence is everywhere.

You’d have to be a FOOL not to suspect alien abduction here.  It looks as though everyone has vanished into thin air amidst doing normal evening activities. They were taken in mid-sentence, mid-feeding-the-dog, mid-eating-supper, mid-brush, and in mid-picking-up-the-wet-bath-towel-you-dropped-on-the-kitchen-floor-because-who-DOESN'T-get-ready-for-bed-in-the-kitchen?

There are discarded, unattended, undone, unwashed, untidy items all over the place; nothing is where it should be and the lack of human sounds is making me think my thoughts of possible alien abduction might not be so far-fetched after all.

Then I hear a noise, a kind of rustling behind me, and as I turn to look, I’m startled by the sound of the front door slamming shut.

I jump and whirl, half-expecting to see a big-headed alien with huge black sockets for eyeballs staring back at me, peering into my soul.

But it’s not an alien. It’s something much, much worse.

It’s a cat.

It’s one of those frigg’in tomcats from the street, nonchalantly strolling right on into the house as if it owns the joint. I gape at the thing in paralyzed disbelief as if it’s, well, an alien. It meows at me, yawns, sashays about the living room and basically shrugs its shoulders before deciding there is nothing worthwhile here, leaves out the door it came through. The same door that only moments before had been slammed shut. The door is obviously possessed.

What’s next in this creepy place? The crows? The door, the evil door, will let a murder of them swarm in like a colony of minion bats. They'll overtake me completely, whisking me away to the alien ship where I'm sure they are about to probe John because they too find him exceedingly annoying. We'll make a bargain. The aliens can keep John for their experiments if they release the kids back to me. It turns out the aliens, while disturbing to look at, are reasonable beings, open to negotiation and diplomacy, and are willing to take the deal.

Then Lala lives happily ever after...there's definitively a maid somewhere in this story. A well-paid maid, but a maid nevertheless. There are no drunks. No confrontations. There are no cats. All the annoying people have been taken away.

The end.

Monday, August 28, 2017

The Vegetarian who ate Organic Chicken

Sunflower was a vegetarian who ate organic chicken. She did not see any problem with this obvious contradiction, but her roommate, Jennifer, did: “But Susan, you can’t call yourself a vegetarian if you eat meat!”

Sunflower ignored Jennifer and continued slicing into a thigh.

“Oh, right,” Jennifer rolled her eyes when she realized her mistake, “Sunflower?”

Susan had changed her name to Sunflower in recent months and Jennifer was not yet accustomed to the switch.  They had been life-long friends  or age-old foes depending on the season  and it's no easy feat for anyone, no matter how how well-meaning or open-minded, to weed out deeply ingrained biases or readjust deterministic linguistic habits.  


It was therefore understandable that Jennifer would have trouble keeping Susan's new name straight. 

Susan did not see it that way. 

Though a self-identified empath with an open third eye and a dogeared copy of The Celestine Prophesy on her nightstand, Susan was not, in practice, sensitive to the struggles of another or to viewpoints she herself did not share. 

As an unsympathetic empath, then, Susan tended to be openly hostile towards anyone who did not refer to her as Sunflower, even if the "ignorant" person genuinely did not know she had changed her name.

It would appear in the current context, however, that Susan was foregoing her usual hostility in exchange for another tried and true tactic of those with a superiority complex who can't handle having their illusions questioned or opinions challenged: Pretend the "offending" person does not exist.

Susan, though, having never really possessed the courage of her convictions, could not keep up the pretense for long. And the second Jennifer addressed her in the desired way, she (Susan) immediately slammed down the butcher knife she'd been using to slice the chicken, assumed a tight smile, took a deep breath and cheerfully exclaimed, "Jen! I didn't see you come in! Did you say something?"

But of course Susan knew perfectly well what Jennifer had said and before Jennifer could repeat herself, the cheerfulness drained from Susan's voice and she snapped, “It’s organic!” as if the word “organic” granted meat a pardon from not being a vegetable.

“And another thing!", Sunflower continued, quickly working herself up into a rant, "I don’t want YOU or ANY of your friends touching my organic chicken! If you touch any of my stuff I’ll call the police!”

Susan (or Sunflower) appeared to be wilting under the strain of trying to be something she was not. But rather than consider the roots of her hypocrisy or give Jennifer a chance to speak, Sunflower angrily lit one of her organic cigarettes and with a dramatic swoosh of her bohemian skirt, stormed out of the kitchen, bumping into Judith along the way. “Judith!" she screamed, "you’re always in the way!!”

Judith was an antique armoire Sunflower had found at a flea market.

Sunflower named all her material possessions. Every person, object and thing in the universe, inorganic, organic or otherwise, was on its own spiritual path to enlightenment, she claimed, and deserved a name that captured its true essence. As for Sunflower and her chosen rechristening, like most ideologically-driven people, she did not heed her own rhetoric and no more resembled a sunny flower than she did a vegetarian or a non-smoker.

In view of this most recent manifestation of Sunflower's aggression and volatility, Jennifer realized that her "friend" might truly be dangerous and for the sake of safety, decided to do as Sunflower demanded and not touch anything that belonged to the crazy woman. Jennifer further decided then and there that she would keep her distance until she could find her own apartment.

Still, it's difficult to find your own apartment when there is a shortage of affordable housing.  It's also difficult to keep one's distance when living in the same space, and as the weeks passed and the stress of trying to remain civil to an uncivil person wore on, Jennifer’s resentment towards Sunflower grew. 

It grew each time she opened the fridge and noted the partially-picked at, soon to start rotting carcass of Sunflower's organic chicken. It grew every time she eyed Sunflower’s unwashed dishes sitting by the sink, or smelled the stench of organic cigarette butts left smoldering in ashtrays all over the house. It grew with each new layer of Judith’s accumulating dust and the resulting sneezing fit Jennifer invariably launched into every time she walked by the armoire. But it grew the strongest whenever she overheard Sunflower misuse the word "organic".

Eventually, Jennifer's simmering resentment intensified to such a degree that she could stand it no longer. In a cleaning frenzy, she attacked the kitchen with a mop, Pine-Sol and dish soap. She threw the chicken carcass and its container into a trash bag, noting that it wasn’t even organic. It was an ordinary rotisserie bird bought on sale at the independent supermarket.

Sunflower was ENRAGED when she later discovered what Jennifer had done and promptly called 911.

“I need to report a crime!” she shrilled into the phone, but stopped mid-sentence when she noticed Judith standing there, gleaming and dust-free.

Hyperventilating, still with the phone to her ear, she yelled at Jennifer in disbelief, ”What did you DO TO JUDITH?? YOU ASSAULTED her!! How DARE you!!!”


The police arrived shortly thereafter. They had received a call about an altercation involving a housecleaning incident, a chicken, a sunflower, two victims named Judith and Jennifer, and one assailant wielding a sawed-off broomstick.

In the mayhem and confusion that ensued, Sunflower, whose name as it turned out had not been legally changed, was taken away in handcuffs for later psychiatric evaluation.  Jennifer was checked over for any injuries and though shaken was deemed fine. She said she was just happy she wouldn't have to live with Susan any more and did not want to pursue criminal charges.

Judith was not available for comment.

Friday, May 12, 2017

Final Absurdities of The Real Housewives of Toronto

The Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode Ten, Season Finale

As it began so it ends: Dumb, dishonest, petty and dull, albeit with a dash of the absurd, as well as an elephant thrown in for good measure. It was only the promise of this absurdity in addition to my curiosity regarding the shady men lurking in the periphery that kept me going until the bitter end. 



And lo and behold, just as predicted, what do I notice "lurking in the periphery" like a psycho stalking his next set of female organs? Brett Wilson. He's desperate to fill his "buckets" with as many penetrable body parts as he possibly can before his erectile dysfunction is permanently medication-resistant and castration becomes his last remaining option. 


Look at him. Weasel. 
Casual hookups, "blind" dates with "professional matchmakers", entrepreneurial "proteges", private gatherings stocked with sushi girls in any location renowned for male-friendly "tourism", whether the Philippines, Dubai or the Virgin Islands, are all well and fine, but there's nothing quite like a conveyor belt of home-grown malleable young models to coax a penile response. 

The added incentive for Wilson in the context of The Real Housewives of Toronto is that he can be involved with yet another reality TV show, which he loves reality TV. 

But perhaps I'm wrong and he's merely hanging out with his cohort. 


It's possible he does not in fact have anything to do with the financing and production of The Real Housewives of Toronto. It's possible he never intentionally set out to undermine the hard-won gains of feminism by introducing yet another demeaning depiction of women into the male-controlled entertainment sphere.

It's possible this old, spongy white dude, this shriveled Mr. Potato Head, past his physical prime, who despite faulty plumbing still carries a reputation for being a male slut (once featured on The Dirty, now deleted, once gossiped about extensively on xojane, now deleted, once pictured fucking around with Jana Webb, now deleted, once called out for the pig he apparently is by a slew of scorned women, now all silent. No doubt 'entrepreneur' Matt Earle, alt right troll, and his "reputation management" lackeys have been well-compensated. If these blogs "disappear" you'll know why) with presumably a venereal disease, never consciously intended to facilitate the end of civilization via the dumbing influence of sensationalized "reality". Perhaps he merely "stumbled" into the private party of a pair of wealthy swingers who "happened" to be filming the final episode of a TV show he's been associated with in the past? Maybe he really isn't a narcissistic sociopath stalking the parties of the rich and ridiculous and his presence on screen, being rich and ridiculous himself, is simply a coincidence.


“Fictions are necessary for the people, and the Truth becomes deadly to those who are not strong enough to contemplate it in all its brilliance. In fact, what can there be in common between the vile multitude and sublime wisdom? The Truth must be kept secret, and the masses need a teaching proportional to their imperfect reason.” ― Albert Pike

While there does exist a compelling theory within social science that draws a link between psychopathy and an engineering degree, Wilson is an "engineer", who by his own account, barely made it through school and never really used his degree in any direct manner anyway. His worldly accomplishments therefore are more likely attributed, not to the methodically carried out machinations of a psychopath, but to the luck of white male privilege, a socioeconomic climate made ripe for harvest by those who came before him, and the genetic happenstance ambitions of an Olds and Milner's rat driven to succeed. 

And while it's also possible a climate science skeptic (denialist, same thing) with a BLATANT conflict of interest, who struck it rich through oil and gas and the very practices climate science has shown are wreaking havoc on the planet, has integrity operating beneath his smug facade, it's un-fucking-likely. If ever there was an archetype of a douchebag Brett Wilson is it.





Besides, it's hard (oops) to fathom a man THIS stupidly egocentric, who spouts cringe-worthy cliches about failure not being failure when he's the one doing the failing, or how success is determined not by the size of his wallet but by the size of his smile (gag, also not true), and who dresses like a mental patient who escaped the asylum only to find himself wandering the aisles of Value Village, has ANY awareness whatsoever outside his own immediate concerns and carnal urges. Look at him. What an asshole. He looks like a parody of Paulie Walnuts from The Sopranos.


Brett Wilson's doppelganger, TV gangster, Tony Sirico (Paulie)
An arrogant bug is a cocky roach.


Then again, he does quote Albert Pike (1809-1891) in his terrible book, Redefining Success, Still Making Mistakes. If Albert Pike, a Freemason and purported Satanist involved with the occult and whose writings are considered a blueprint for the "new world order" is one of Wilson's dogmatic sources, then "calculating psychopath" is still within the realm of possibility. If that is indeed the case, then his disguise as a pompous fool and embarrassing clown is nothing short of genius.  You play your role well, psycho.


Quoted by Wilson in Redefining Success, page 12.


The true evil intent of Albert Pike.
But putting aside the satisfying feeling of being right about Brett Wilson on some level, how do the kind of people we see portrayed on the Real Housewives of Toronto as well as the fawning multitudes who inevitably flock around them not see how utterly absurd they look, or how despicable their extravagances are in a world teeming with so much poverty and suffering? 


There is no beauty in the finest cloth if it makes hunger and unhappiness ~ Mahatma Gandhi
We're all supposed to be SO impressed, in such awe, of rich people and their fucked up obsession with fashion. They act as if the designs are THEIR designs! They do the same thing with the arts. They collect, display and wear other people's work and then call it their own as if they literally did the creating. It's a fine, easily blurred line between patronage and thievery, and the wealthy have no problem crossing that line.

“If it were not for the intellectual snobs who pay - in solid cash - the tribute which philistinism owes to culture, the arts would perish with their starving practitioners. Let us thank heaven for hypocrisy.” ― Aldous Huxley

They also have no problem flaunting their wealth, their "conspicuous consumption", with seemingly no regard for the planet their reckless living impacts. With respect to fashion specifically, it's difficult to watch the masquerading women and men of The Real Housewives without thinking of the environmental damage associated with the clothing industry. It's also difficult to not think of the inhumane working conditions and mental health problems attached to the fashion trade, whether we're talking teen models starved and treated like branded cattle in a slaughterhouse, the eating disorders, body dysmorphia and sexual objectification intimately tied to commercialized fashion, or the slave wages of factory workers in impoverished countries with dismal human rights track records. 



I'm not against culture and the arts, prosperity, progress or freedom of expression, but I am against injustice, cruelty and the indifference of those who could do something substantial to change the plight of the poor, sick, hurt and oppressed, but choose not to because they've decided outside the exclusive privilege they enjoy, the state of the world has nothing to do with them.  They seem to have come to the delusional conclusion that they are a superior race of self-generating aliens from another galaxy, here on Earth merely as tourists.

I am also against the massive imbalance of power and wealth caused by the corruption, inhumanity and unregulated capitalist greed of these privileged few who arrogantly think they created themselves, and who use their appropriated power to further rig the game in their favor, at the expense of an anguished, disempowered many. 

I'm against the idolization of flawed mortals. And I'm against applauding their grandiose displays of obscene riches, while immediately outside their golden gates, languishing below their gilded cages, disadvantaged human beings writhe in pain and struggle in vain as they fight to survive.



Then UNBELIEVABLY, the second people who have too much money, such as Joan and Don Walker or whipping boy, Brett Wilson, decide to adopt the prestigious title of "philanthropist" and huck some resources at the very suffering and inequality they're responsible for creating and maintaining in the first place, we're all expected to be pathetically ingratiating and deferential towards them?? 




Constantly exalting the filthy rich for giving back to the world that made their atrocious accumulation of wealth possible in the first place is as ludicrous as constantly praising divorced fathers for paying child support. These are moral imperatives. They SHOULD be giving back without expecting anything in return. They already have SO MUCH. It's not good for ANY human soul to be so fucking greedy, or for ANY ego to be stroked so vigorously and so ceaselessly. Nothing should be stroked that hard.

The fatuous posturing and eccentric habits of the privileged and well-to-do, as if they've jumped straight out of the pages of The Hunger Games, wouldn't bother me to the degree it does if there wasn't just SO MUCH human misery surrounding them that they could actually do something structurally significant to change. 

If there wasn't all this desperate need and injustice in the world, I'd feel the same way about the extravagant lifestyles of the rich and famous as I do about tattoos, cartoonish breast implants that transform women into bimbo caricatures, "open" relationships, Pajama People, flaky New Age trends, placenta pills and religious fundamentalism: I'd never submit to these lifestyle choices and belief systems, but "whatever" if someone else does. Other than being curious about these things, I don't care. I might not get it, but to each his or her own. 




However, it isn't quite the case, is it, that the rich are simply living frivolous, materialistic lives that have no detrimental, oppressive effects on anyone else. They live the way they do, hoarding wealth, totally indifferent (other than for the purposes of their self-serving philanthropy and marketing ploys), and almost downright contemptuous of the poorer masses, because they're addicted to the power, illicit temptations, luxuries and unending adulation that comes with their affluence. 

They don't really want to do anything to alleviate suffering or elevate the oppressed into an improved state of being because that wouldn't serve their superiority complex or feed their lust for power. They don't really care about anyone else. They want an inferior, peasant class that stays desperate and hungry because it keeps THEM rich, powerful and exalted with all the "perks" that entails.

They like feeling superior, feeling like gods and goddesses, kings and queens. They like believing they're above the rest of us, either by divine decree or meritorious "hard work". And they like the idea that others are inferior because they're meant to be inferior. In other words, they like oppression and they like believing those who are oppressed somehow deserve their oppression.

With regards to their addiction to the constant praise that comes with status, how often do we hear the women of any of the Real Housewives franchises being greeted with how "amazing" they look, or how "beautiful" they are, or how they are "goddesses"? It's nauseating. 

It's as nauseating as watching Roxy in action with her impossible to hide envy and malice, despite her "reputation management" team's best efforts to spin it. Her micro-expressions, body language and the contradiction between what is said and what is done don't lie. 

If you want to know what makes a person tick, you have to ignore the superficial things they, their friends, family, acquaintances or the people they employ say. I mean, other than what the superficiality itself says about them.

Envy is a littleness of soul, which cannot see beyond a certain point, and if it does not occupy the whole space, feels itself excluded ~ William Hazlitt
You have to ignore the platitudes they regurgitate and you can't be bamboozled by their status, material success, physical beauty, credentials or the impressive people they claim as friends. You have to keep your mind flexible and pay attention to the minutia, the details. Absolutely everything in life, no matter how seemingly trivial, is endowed with some meaning, some clue that can help you reveal hidden truths, illuminate concealed miracles and expose otherwise cleverly disguised lies, if you have the eye for it. 

Not everyone does have or want this "eye" however, and who can blame them? Once you start peering beneath the surface into the darker depths of human nature it can be downright debilitating from a mental health standpoint. You run the risk of spending too much time ruminating on the depressing idea that there is something alarmingly wrong with humanity when it seems so willing to worship the rich, overlooking their more dismal behaviors and cruelties, while at the same time letting the meek, the unknown, the poor and the abused rot in some garbage dump, or be used as nothing but cheap, slave labour and objects of sexual assault.

Case in point, Magna, of which Don Walker is the CEO, opens assembly plant after assembly plant in Mexico because slave wages, trade union suppression, lack of workers' rights or even basic respect for human dignity, as well as unenforced government regulations and unrestricted trading borders keep costs of labour and production low enough to enable the Donalds of the world multi-million dollar compensations.  This then puts the Joans of the world in the "envious" position of being able to throw elaborate parties on a whim, so they can show off their privilege and material trinkets on television to much acclaim and devotion. Essentially, the rich FEED off the poor like fucking leeches.


But who wants to think about that? Who, other than maybe a few who reject the banality of the "positivity movement", want to think about all the "negativity" involved with the social ills of the world? Why do that when we can watch "goddesses", Ann Kaplan and Joan Walker, distract themselves with shopping for golden elephants and giant lip-shaped chaise loungers? 




Or when we can listen in on Jana Webb and Roxy Earle as they maliciously (and gleefully) gossip yet AGAIN about Kara Alloway? And then in turn observe Ann and Kara hash out the details of the same piece of gossip, albeit from a different angle, that Jana and Roxy were just digging into?


Jana and Roxy meet up to verbally "rip apart" Kara Alloway yet again, Jana stating, "I'm scared she's going to rip me apart and I'm going to be a rug on her floor". She's afraid?? THEY are the ones ripping apart Kara! Unbelievable. The always hateful, jealous Roxy disagrees and snaps, "Let's be clear, this is not an intimidating person. She's not important". Well, dummies, that turned out to be patently untrue, didn't it? You ALL made Kara Alloway THE MOST IMPORTANT focal point of the ENTIRE first season (and I imagine last) of The Real Housewives of Toronto. Then, unbelievably again after spending the whole segement trash talking Kara, Jana ends it by saying, "You know what? Let's stop talking about it, it's so negative". A LITTLE LATE for that, oh great Yogi of Bimbo!! Good god!
Why would we think about depressing Mexican factory workers far removed from "The True North, Strong and Free", who are paid a pittance and used like workhorses, when we can watch Don ogle the fake tits of some chick straddling his (I assume) Harley amidst the opulence of a "condo" that's more like a castle than a condo? Why would we?


The wandering eye of a filthy rich man always finds a pair of tits to land on. Where the eye goes, the dick is sure to follow. Sorry, Joan, your husband's a dog. But I'm sure you knew that. Oh well, you have the diamond.
And that OUTLANDISH vow renewal circus?! What the? I already had the Capitol citizens from the Hunger Games, with their bizarre getups and mindless indulgences, in my head from Joan's earlier fashion show, but Ann and Stevie's wedding ceremony clinched it. Holy shit. The inanity! The phoniness! The vanity! The self-exaltation! The senseless waste of money! 


We live increasingly in a world of haves and have-nots, of gated communities next to ghettos, of extreme poverty and unbelievable riches. Some enjoy rights that are completely denied to others. Relative inequalities are exploding, and the world's poorest, despite all the advances of globalisation, may even be getting poorer ~ Noreena Hertz
Meanwhile, there's an affordable housing crisis in Toronto, a city dubbed Canada's inequality capital and home to one of the largest wealth gaps on the planet. The shelters overflow and food banks cannot keep up with the demand. Untreated mental illness, addiction and human trafficking loiter the streets, sleep under cardboard or hide in the shadows, forced there by either those who are exploiting them or by a society that doesn't want to look at them.


Ann Kaplan and Joan Walker compare diamonds, their status symbols. They are status symbols that are stained with blood and infused with the stench of pollution, but they don't care. They can go shopping!
A society that doesn't care, where the bulk of the wealth stays at the tip of the pyramid, separated from the woes of this ugly world like a highly selective blood-brain barrier. The barrier is there to prevent foreign, harmful substances found in the blood from entering the brain. But the rich are living an illusion if they think they are the impenetrable brains of the operation. Their barriers aren't omnipotent and eventually something unwanted always seeps through, everything suffers, everyone dies, the pyramid crumbles and the capstone falls.



The self-glorifying rich, the sadistic, the corrupt and those with merciless ambition who abuse, ignore and exploit the poor, the gullible and the victims of this world will return to dust. They will meet their fate. The law of karma will prevail, whether in this life or the next.

Or at least that's what peasants like me tell each other. It makes us feel better about our marginalized existence, but really? Leonard Cohen was right:

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded
Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed
Everybody knows the war is over
Everybody knows the good guys lost
Everybody knows the fight was fixed
The poor stay poor, the rich get rich
That's how it goes
Everybody knows

I originally ended this blog with ill will, encouraging, Jana, for example, to perform Joga "tricks" until she developed an unsightly rash and itched so badly that her hair fell out by its bleached roots. But then I heard she'd been involved in a near-fatal head-on collision not long after The Real Housewives of Toronto finished taping, resulting in a long, painful recovery period. So I guess I'll take back my unkind "encouragement" and wish her well.

I also suggested Joan should down another bottle of wine and rip off another pair of panties until she projectile-vomited and a bacterial infection took over her urinary tract, but now that seems a little mean. So I'll take that back too and wish her the best of luck with Donald and his wandering eye. She's going to need it.

I furthermore thought Grego should yelp out another yahoo! until her voice became so hoarse that she croaked like a fucking toad. I told Ann to go ahead and inject some more filler into her face until her transformation into an unrecognizable mutant socialite good only for terrifying small children was complete. I thought Roxy could indulge to her gluttonous heart's content until her vanity and greed ballooned so far beyond the confines of her skull that her head blew up. However, I take it all back. May their futures be glaringly bright and blindingly illuminating.

But the shady men "lurking in the periphery"? My only wish for them is that they one day get everything they deserve.

The end.

Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 1: Dumb, Plastic and Sleazy
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 2: Boring Housewives and Ugly Husbands
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 3: The Polished Real Housewives of Toronto
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 4: The Slut Shame
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 5: Amazing Reality TV Stars
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 6: Infomercials and Friends in High Places
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 7: Social Suicide: Game of Thrones to the Rescue
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 8: Curious incuriosity
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 9: Denials, Dragons and Dummies
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 10, Season Finale: Final Absurdities

Sunday, May 7, 2017

The Real Denials, Dragons and Elephants of Toronto

The Real Housewives of Toronto Episode Nine

The truth is a sharp blade, a surprise attack, a dragon's flame, a slap in the face, and a bucket of ice cold water over the head when you live a shallow existence full of your own falsely perceived greatness, surrounded by sycophants, yes men and handmaidens programmed to serve your vanities and your vanities alone. This is why the Barbie dolls of The Real Housewives of Toronto were so "ambushed" by Kara's unvarnished candor in episode nine. It's not easy being green, it's not easy being plastic.



Fake people concentrate so much brain power on their outward appearance and superficial personas that they neglect to develop the kind of inner strength and depth of character that would enable them to handle the honesty of a sharp tongue. 




One harsh word, a single snide remark or an unflattering truth that challenges their denial, and they collapse in a heap of despair and bewilderment. Or they erupt into a bleating fracas of outrage, which is exactly what happened with dumb and dumber, Jana and Grego. But the title of Queen Dummy has got to go to trophy-giraffe, Joan.


Yes, well-preserved second wife Joan is still considered a trophy wife even though she has been married to "a Donald" for a hideously long time. Perhaps if she had  not kept up the cosmetic "fine tuning" and exercise regimen "Don loves" so much things would be different? It does make one wonder about the possibility of  secret "illicit trophies", though, doesn't it? The kind a filthy rich man pays for and uses but doesn't marry (think "Caligula Effect"). This isn't even conjecture by the way - they literally refer to the "sex tents" swingers, Joan and Don Walker, are known for during the Muskoka episode.

She was so slow-witted and almost slurry in her speech, it was hard to tell if she was even sober during the entirety of episode nine. I'm a little concerned for her fragile mental state. This is a perfect example of why a little hardship and having to deal with bullies, difficult people and criticism are all unfortunate but necessary training grounds for building character and emotional resilience.





Learning to deal with adversity empowers you. On the flip side, if you don't learn how to deal with it effectively, adversity and the injustices of life can utterly destroy a person. The trick then isn't to avoid adversity, but to learn how to "roll with the punches". If you don't, you'll get punched in the head so many times you'll be rendered nothing but a mushy vegetable, one that is easily manipulated around the plate.

Unless, apparently, you were born privileged, then you don't really have to "roll with the punches" because the punches are prevented from getting near you in the first place. You can just lay back and bask in your own uncontested glory, fanned by your attentive servants, praised by your adoring, awestruck subjects. 




(Joan might not have been born into wealth and privilege, but her beauty and willingness to surgically augment that beauty is itself a kind of privilege and not just because it landed her "a Donald" and all the trimmings a Donald can provide. Good looking people are generally treated better in society to the point of worship in some cases, and given concessions and opportunities not awarded the more unsightly lumbering and lurching amongst us. 





But don't take my word for it. There is plenty of research on the subject if you care to look for it. I'd direct you to some sources, but nobody seems to care about my sources so I won't bother. Besides, if you're not interested in doing any heavy reading, there are always sitcoms to showcase life's idiosyncrasies. The super powers of beauty, for instance, were adequately and amusingly depicted by Seinfeld's Nikki the Blonde (watch here).

As for Queen Dummy Joan, even without knowing what she looks like, it's easy enough to surmise she has lived a pampered existence by her own words. The most uncomfortable she has EVER been was Kara going off on her? What the? 


Jana is shocked to see Kara at Pierre's birthday, even though Grego did invite Kara, and in classic mean girl style, Jana bristles, "She's very brave to come here". Then, Jana, smug, with the over-confidence of a Neanderthal with a low IQ, appoints herself the hero of the group and confronts Kara, referencing white elephants, which doesn't make any sense. She of course meant the "elephant in the room" but lives to regret confronting the elephant because Kara will not back down and is all "bring it!" She wants to talk about this elephant, too. It turns out the opportunist-minded Jana is confused in more ways than one and is left speechless when Kara not only freely owns up to what she actually said, but further concedes that "yes, I will judge you if you take your clothes off". Nothing like brutal honesty. This, by the way, Jana, is why people generally avoid elephants.

No wonder she and her dummy squad are so "appalled" by Kara if the worst insult they've ever experienced is being reminded they were "falling down blind drunk" (when they were!). Or that it is uncouth to strip off one's clothes at a beautifully thought out dinner party put together by a gracious hostess, who went to much expense and trouble. They treated Kara's dinner as if it was a stagette and Kara had every right to voice her displeasure with their behavior. 


Flashback to that fateful night at Kara's dinner party: After way too much wine, Joan slurs, "We should all go skinny dipping!" Ah, fond memories. When your past drunken escapades come back to haunt you, it's best to deny everything and refuse to talk about it. This unfortunately becomes significantly trickier when your humiliation is recorded and put on television. Not too bright, there, wino.

In contrast, Joan and the dummy squad don't see anything wrong with their pitiful performance at Muskoka; their only issue is if someone comments on their behavior with anything but joviality and applause. They DO NOT like being judged and will "confront" ANYONE who dares to think of them as anything but fun-loving party girls (even though they are all well past the age where that's even plausible). 



Patron Saint of Plastic and Queen Dummy confabulating nonsense only a trophy wife could follow.

They do not like hearing gossip about themselves either (which, what did they think they were signing up for?), no matter how solidly based in fact, yet have NO PROBLEM dishonestly and maliciously gossiping about someone they don't like. This is what you call a hypocrite, folks. A hypocrite is someone who condemns in another what they celebrate and condone in themselves. 


Oops, there Jana is drinking and gossiping again. The dummy squad are busy maliciously gossiping about how they abhor gossips. It makes about as much sense as confronting elephants you pretend aren't there when they ARE there and then being shocked that you've awakened a beast you never really wanted to confront in the first place. You were just playing, putting on an act. It's very confusing being this deceptive.


Joan especially does not like hearing "unkind" things about herself, no matter how true, yet babbles on about the importance of honesty. I suppose it's easy to be an advocate of honesty if you truly believe in all honesty that you are above reproach, your integrity could never be questioned, and the circumstances of your privileged life support your deluded views. Joan, "You wonder why you never fail?  Your life's a goddamn fairy tale" (Must be Nice).




Joan then, fully expecting to shame Kara into acquiescence, asks for the truth and when Kara gives her the truth, granted with the kind of dramatic flare normally reserved for a Broadway production, Joan does not know what to do. Not only has she never been told the real truth in her whole entire life, she has never been spoken to with such irreverence and therefore panics. 


In response to Joan and Ann's insinuation Kara was only after their money, she rightly points out, which it seems should go without saying:  "I did say I'm interested in the money for the charity, because it's not MY Ambi Gala. It's an Ambi Gala for the CHILDREN. I wasn't asking you to give money to ME, Joan."

Under Kara's "hostile" fire, Joan's heart "pounds" like it's never pounded before, and she does the only thing her frantic "flight or fight" response can think to do and makes a run for it. It's like watching a giraffe being pursued by a lion, or in this case, a female dragon with "flames shooting out her nostrils". Nice. 




I didn't realize dragons found simple giraffes enticing enough to pursue. But I suppose when you're a seasoned dragon, any annoying, self-exalting creature that has the nerve to squawk at you is fair game. 


Watch out now she's breathing fire. She's a dragon lady. Look into her crimson eyes.
Say goodbye ~ Crimson Glory
I guess Joan didn't know about dragons until she confronted one. Dragon ladies are very wise, Joan, they see through vanities, pomposity, phoniness, schemes and deception with the magical perception of a mind-reader. Beware of dragons, but don't worry about the posers. Go ahead and laugh at the posers. Real dragons laugh with you.


If you ever want a taste of what privilege is, here you go: This is Joan's reaction to being faced with someone who isn't interested in stroking her ego or supporting her denial: "This was an ambush and the MOST UNCOMFORTABLE moment of my life. I have NEVER had that much hostility and anger directed towards me". This coming from a woman who has traveled  extensively and seen firsthand some of the worst poverty on the planet. Maybe check your fucking privilege, Joan, if you're going to be a champion for starving children, at least if you want to be taken seriously by people who aren't interested in feeding your narcissism.

Speaking of posers, in addition to Joan who claims to be concerned with children's charities but only if those promoting the charities want to be her "friend" (with all the innuendo that entails), who do they think they're kidding with that ridiculous matchmaker date? They choose the most unsuitable, goofy sleazebag they could find to make Jana look better in contrast and also to give her yet another excuse to plug her Joga business? 


Jana takes advantage of her captive audience to once again give her Joga girl pitch ostensibly to Rob: "We make men feel successful in yoga, that's pretty much, you know, our motto; if you can't touch your toes, you're our perfect client".  They make physically repulsive "MEN" feel successful? Seriously, is Joga House a brothel? Because every time Jana plugs her "business", Heidi Fleiss immediately comes to mind.

They again did the exact same setup in The Real Housewives of Vancouver. The viewer is expected to suspend disbelief and unquestionably accept these "arrangements" are all spontaneously put together purely for "romance" with no ulterior agenda, no foreknowledge of who each other was, or what they were going to say. The viewer is supposed to just docilely sit there, distracted by fanciful fairy tale themes, as they're subliminally exposed to "branding" ploys and infomercial-style presentations. Come on.


Jana tells loser Rob Pagetto she hasn't been on a date in fifteen years because "you know, I didn't date while I was married". This is why I do not trust men and keep my distance. Jana stays faithful while douchebag Dave cheats on her and blows up her life. Dave isn't too bothered by what he's done though, and just goes out and finds a new replacement trophy wife named Haley of all names, leaving Jana alone with her bottle of wine, trying to piece back together the shards of her devastated existence.

Also, after weeks of casting her as the "slut" of the show (not me, the show is doing it, I'm just pointing it out, don't shoot the messenger), suddenly now Jana's all demure and grimaces at Rob's vulgar comments? But of course not too too demure. They do, after all, open the dating segment with Jana confiding, "I'm dipping my foot back into the dating pool and maybe, if things go well, I'll get wet". Classy


Jana: "Like, how can you let your hair down and have a good time when you know someone is looking at you and judging every move that you make?" Maybe don't put yourself on a REALITY TV SHOW if you don't want to be "judged", yogi.

But it begs the question, with her "roster of penis", hasn't she been getting wet enough? You'd think she'd be downright drowning in semen the way she carries on about it. Although, if her roster consists mostly of the "business elites" who invest "in" her, it's possible her own pleasure is of no concern to them. The best she can hope for in the "getting wet" arena is a money shot to the face.

(Again, don't shoot the messenger. I'm merely drawing attention to the way these shows, in subtle and not so subtle ways, manipulate the viewer's mind to think of women in predominately sexualized and demeaning terms. When they purposely leave comments like "getting wet" in the editing, they want your mind to "go there".


Jana stays naively hopeful: "Sometimes you have to meet a lot of frogs before you find your prince". There is no prince, Jana. It's just a swamp. Maybe some flies, but that's it.

These kinds of "bimbo" depictions of women in popular culture are at least partially to blame for why a man like Rob, Jana's date, sees NO PROBLEM with saying to a woman he just met and was supposedly trying to impress that "the French are horny and Italians are the best lovers". He thought he was being flirty and charmingly funny. He thought women loved that sort of thing. What Rob said is a "tell" that indicates he's an idiot. It also indicates he's been watching way too much internet porn and most likely has a problem. Porn addicts make terrible lovers anyway Jana, so no big loss.

It might incidentally seem like I'm being overly harsh towards Jana, but other than the slut thing, which probably has more to do with the editing than her as a person in real life, I actually find Jana's loyalty to her friends, messy hair, hippie vibe and awkwardness endearing. Snark, however, is my intention so that's as good as you're going to get).

Getting back to reality TV's convoluted concept of "truth", in the grand finale of episode nine, amidst another one of these extravagant adult birthday parties The Real Housewives are renowned for, Jana takes the lead and confronts Kara on Joan's behalf using a mixed up elephant metaphor to segue into her beef. A white elephant, Jana, and "the elephant in the room" have different meanings. 




Maybe a little less Joga and a little more reading there yogi, leader of bimbo, master of the word "like". Your athleticism and good looks will only get you so far, (actually, this obviously isn't true but accuracy isn't the point) my little bleached-blonde Maca root. I suggest Elephants and Red Herrings (see here) to get you started. Better late than never.

In the meantime, if you're going to be this stupid at least have a sense of humor about it. Kara getting a banana boat to make them vomit is hilarious especially since it backfired on her! Why are they making such a big deal about this? Not only did they not vomit, but Kara ended up injured as a result of her attempt at banana boat "revenge" which Kara herself has a sense of humor about (when she isn't being irritatingly accused of inane falsehoods).


Kara reminds the dummy squad that they were all talking about skinny dipping but it was Joan who got blind drunk and took her panties off at Kara's dinner party. Jana, whose panties also come off on a whim or faster than you can say "Joga" screams in Kara's face, "Who cares!!!" You can take the girl out of Alberta, but you can't take Alberta out of the girl.
It however is understandable that Kara wasn't laughing about them implying she used the Ambi charity gala for personal gain, Jana basically accusing Kara of embezzlement. Kara was thus totally justified in her indignation and reaction to Jana's accusation that "how dare you go and ask Joan for 25 thousand dollars for your event!". 


Kara mentors the dummies in clear, simple language, like she's speaking to obnoxious children who are having trouble following directions, "We can debate this all you want, but denying it doesn't mean it didn't happen". She then lays out again in straightforward language what actually happened. But this does nothing but confuse the dummies even more. After being schooled by Kara, rather than learning the lesson, Jana and the others are left in a state of bewilderment: "What just happened? How did this happen? Somehow she manipulated the conversation. I'm, like, wow, who is this woman?" She has the spirit of a dragon, Jana. Never underestimate dragons.

There is no way a dragon worth her fire can let slander like that go unanswered, but like any shrewd dragon, Kara sticks to the facts and simply, albeit dripping with sarcasm, replies, "It's not my event, my dear, it's about the children. It's not about me". Duh, Jana. Come on!

Jana, though, a woman whose entire existence is built around detecting "opportunity" like a rat looking for an opening into a well-stocked pantry, doesn't believe Kara. It doesn't align with Jana's worldview that a person would do anything, not even anything charitablethat doesn't foremost serve his or her personal interests.


The look of a woman whose illusions and denials have been tampered with.
It also doesn't seem to align with Ann's worldview, who ironically (since Ann looks more rubber doll than human) comes to the weird ass conclusion that Kara's reaction to their confrontation is because she "isn't human". 

Ann, "I get charity, but I don't get 'I'm really mad at everybody but I want everyone to spend money". Joan also doesn't get it, "When I hear essentially Kara just wants my money, I can't believe that she would even say that". It's CHARITY dingbats! The money isn't supposed to go to the person asking for the donation. That said, that these women look at charity as a means of bettering their position in society says it all. The rich use and need the poor and sick, not the other way around.
Ann just goes to prove you don't have to be particularly smart to enjoy worldly success. She's as slow-thinking as Joan, who now doesn't know "which way is up" after Kara's superior intelligence has "confused" not only her (Joan) but the others as well.


Joan, still shell-shocked from being told the unvarnished truth, tells Grego she feels like she's been "trampled on". She says she "honestly doesn't know how to process" Kara's sugar-free honesty. And rather than wake up from her denial and take into consideration what Kara said, brilliant Joan decides instead that they've entered "the realm of ridiculous" (yeah, that must be it) where she doesn't "even know which way is up anymore". Sweaty Grego's "heart is beating" as well because she too has no idea which way is up. LADIES! Look behind Grego! Those two balding men know which way is up, just follow their bottles! Everyone knows how much you girls like "the bottle" so this should be a "no-brainer". Good grief. Is it safe for these two to be wandering around unsupervised?

But in the final moments of episode nine, as Kara's dragon tail effortlessly swats at the dummy squad's feeble attempts at character assassination, I'm more left wondering where lounge-lizard Pierre has gotten off to. My bet is on those Brazilian dancers his ditzy wife encouraged him to get up close and personal with. 


These people look totally insane. Am I the only one who sees it? Grego is downright manic over the debauchery, too. She shrieks with manic glee as if she's lost her mind, "I WANTED THE DANCERS TO GRAB PIERRE!!!". As for Pierre, he admits the Brazilian dancers were the "icing on the cake". I bet they were, lounge-lizard. I. Bet. They. Were.
Perhaps my suspicion from an earlier blog of Pierre's lack of faithfulness is unfair. His wife seems to want him to partake in the flesh of ladies who are not her. I've never understood women like this, who encourage men to cheat, giving them free rein to spray semen all over the place like indiscriminate monkeys flinging feces  women who entice their men with scantily-clad friends, threesomes, strippers, topless servers, pornography, partner-swapping...Joan Walker's "sex tents", etcetera. But then what do I know? I'm not the one still married.  Personally, I'd rather die poor and alone than put up with the kind of crap these women put up with, but to each her own. I'm not the one living in a mansion.  We all have choices to make: Do you want to be a well-provided for slave or the master of your own broke ass?

Next week we enter the final stretch.

Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 1: Dumb, Plastic and Sleazy
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 2: Boring Housewives and Ugly Husbands
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 3: The Polished Real Housewives of Toronto
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 4: The Slut Shame
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 5: Amazing Reality TV Stars
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 6: Infomercials and Friends in High Places
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 7: Social Suicide: Game of Thrones to the Rescue
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 8: Curious incuriosity
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 9: Denials, Dragons and Dummies
Real Housewives of Toronto, Episode 10, Season Finale: Final Absurdities